A Good Man in Honore
by librarianmum
Summary: How did Humphrey come to apply for the job in Sainte-Marie? And how did he really feel about investigating Richard's death?
1. Chapter 1

**A Good Man in Honoré**

**As I've not found very many stories so far on the utterly adorable Humphrey Goodman, I thought I'd write my own. This is really how I perceive his background and how he ended up taking over from Richard. I've written some additional notes at the end about the UK police, for anyone who's unfamiliar.**

**I'm just having a bit of fun with the characters, who belong to Robert Thorogood and the BBC, and I'm very grateful to them for cheering up my winters with this fun series!**

**For those who are impatiently waiting for the next instalment of my Sherlock story…sorry. It IS coming, just very slowly…**

* * *

**Chapter 1: Sally**

Humphrey Goodman met Sally Smedley on a wet Thursday afternoon in late November. By accident, of course.

He'd been hurrying down the steps of Bournemouth police station, a newly promoted Detective Inspector with an unaccustomed sense of self-confidence and a consequent spring in his step. It was a feeling that would inevitably drift away fairly shortly – as soon as the next time he made an utter fool of himself. However, even _he _thought his newfound sense of optimism – of having finally done something_ right_ in his life– would last longer than roughly seven minutes.

That was how long it took for him to leave the Chief Superintendent's office and hurry down the stairs, already searching his jacket pockets for his mobile as he went. It was a foul day – cold and dreary, with a persistent clammy drizzle, but it was still better to go outside. He wanted to tell his father the good news and, unsure of the old man's reaction, dreaded doing so in front of his colleagues. They would, no doubt, snigger and roll their eyes in the mistaken assumption that 'old Humph' wouldn't notice.

He knew his relatively new colleagues wouldn't understand how he could have made DI. He'd moved here from Oxfordshire Constabulary where, among the dreaming spires of the University town, his little eccentricities had been rather better tolerated. The Chief Superintendent had seen something in the large, clumsy young Detective Constable that had prompted him to push the lad towards a transfer into CID. DC Goodman had a strange obsession with the minutiae of cases; he was the one who would ask the seemingly unimportant questions. More than a few of his superiors were initially impatient with his eccentric approach, until it became obvious that it – somehow – _worked_. By such means, Humphrey progressed to DS, took his DI OSPRE exams…and then appeared to get stuck.

Seeing no chance of promotion at his current force and feeling that he needed to improve his parents' views on his career _somehow_, he'd tried a sideways move to Dorset Constabulary, where he'd been lucky enough to come under the tutelage of Fred Savage, a grizzled old refugee from the London Met who had come to the south coast looking for a calmer life six months before he was due to hand in his badge. At his retirement, much to everyone's surprise and indeed Humphrey himself, Savage had recommended "the big lad" for the job.

The Chief Super had accepted his application with a certain degree of reserve – in truth, she could hardly refuse him. Humphrey had already passed his OSPRE with the highest marks that year; easily above those of the other, rather lacklustre, candidates. Dorset didn't tend to attract the most dynamic or ambitious of officers. She'd called him in on this unpromising November day to give him the good news.

And then, of course, he just _had to _skid on the bottom step outside the police station, lurch forward in attempt to save himself, nearly knock over a young woman, who dodged him with surprising grace, and end up smacking his face against a soggy, dirty lamp post.

The woman – Sally - was gracious enough to pretend that the near collision was her fault, although they both knew that wasn't the case. She produced a tissue for Humphrey to wipe the mud of his cheek and laughingly helped him make light of the accident. She told him that she'd come to the station to present her full driving licence, having just received a 3-point speeding fine. It was the newly qualified teacher's first speeding fine and she was understandably jittery.

This was, of course, where Humphrey was at his best – his shambolic, self-deprecating charm able to disarm the tensest of witnesses and victims. He led Sally into the reception and took her through the process smoothly, chattering away all the time ("Yes, I agree that the hidden camera just before Ringwood is _very_ mean"). He somehow managed to make Sally feel better about that fact that her pristine driving licence was about to be marked with the speeding offence. Her open and obvious gratitude led him, to his surprise, asking her rather diffidently if she'd like to get a coffee sometime. Perhaps to his even greater surprise, she accepted.

That was probably the last initiative Humphrey ever took when it came to their romance. Sally, very wisely realising that nothing further would happen unless she pushed, more-or-less took over the organisation of dates, the process of moving in together and, eventually their marriage. Looking back, Humphrey couldn't actually recall which of them had proposed, or even if an actual proposal had taken place. All he knew was that, one day, they were standing outside a jewellers in Salisbury, looking at engagement rings. It just seemed to be the next natural step.

And it was _fun_. In fact, for a couple of years, it was _brilliant_. _Fantastic_. Up to now, Humphrey had hardly been successful in his love life. He'd drifted through secondary school, university and a brief flit with the civil service prior to joining the Force, vaguely aware that, all around him, romance was occurring – flirtations led to relationships, fights led to separations. Somehow, however, he felt removed from the natural equation. He had had plenty of platonic friends over the years – fellow oddballs who appreciated his gentle nature, wacky humour and sense of fun. And many of those friends had been women, and he'd liked and respected them a great deal. It would be wrong to suggest that Humphrey treated them quite in the same way as he did his male friends. His father had been something of a male chauvinist about women, and Humphrey probably tried to compensate by being overly supportive of female equality…nevertheless, there was still something old-fashioned about his gently respectful manner towards them.

Humphrey might have been rather surprised had he known that more than one of his female friends had sighed wistfully over those warm blue eyes and that kind, gentlemanly manner…but, eagle-eyed in all other aspects of life, Humphrey was myopic when it came to matters of the heart.

He had been on a few dates – which usually ended with him knocking something over them, quite probably his drink, and stammering apologies. Eventually, the stress became too much. After one too many nights cut embarrassingly short by his inability to behave like a normal person, he'd given up on the romance and stuck to friendship instead. It was safer that way.

What made Sally different was that she didn't seem to care about the clumsiness. This, in itself, was refreshing. Humphrey had grown up with the understanding that he'd inherited some freak familial characteristic that had cursed him with gangly long limbs, large feet and hands and a complete inability to control them for any length of time.

His father had described him as "that great big lump"; even Mum had said, only half-jokingly, that she feared for her safety when he was around. By the age of 13, he was already half a head taller than his next older brother. Clothes never fitted him right; she struggled to find school shoes in his size. By the time he stopped growing at 18, he had a good sense of how much of a nuisance his adolescence had been to his mother. If he ever needed a reminder, he only had to visit at Christmas or Mothering Sunday or some other holiday to hear the gentle sigh in her voice and the air of mild reproach in her posture.

He'd been mildly bullied for his height in the school playground, but it hadn't lasted too long, as he'd learnt early that a self-effacing smile and a good sense of humour could diffuse any conflict. And Humphrey never lacked for supporters. People _liked_ him. At most stages of his life, he was just "good old Humph".

Even as an adult, he didn't feel quite at ease in his own body. He could now find clothes that fitted him, but the suits he wore to work were too restrictive, while his baggy casual separates made him look untidy. His floppy hair would never lie straight, however hard he tried, and shorter hairstyles looked ridiculous.

And here, suddenly, was someone who couldn't care less about any of it. In some ways, Sally reminded him of his mother – slim and fragile-looking, which worried him at first. But, unlike his mother, she was robust and sporty, with a natural enjoyment of the outside life. He didn't fear hurting her with an awkwardly placed elbow or an unanticipated stumble. Around Sally, for once in his life, he didn't feel too big, or too exuberant…or too _anything_.

Sally used to tell her friends that the day she'd met him had been the one bright spark in an otherwise horrible day. She'd often gloss over the actual circumstances of their meeting, but would portray Humphrey as something of a hero in the way he'd helped her. Humphrey was both embarrassed and elated by this. He couldn't always tell whether the glow in her eyes was genuine admiration or just a kind attempt to bolster his self-confidence…but either way, he appreciated it. She even got on well with his parents, charming them over dinner with lightly amusing anecdotes. Their perception was that Humphrey could hardly have done better – his mother even seemed a little bemused that her awkward youngest son could have convinced such a lovely young woman to have him. His father's only response had been to clap Humphrey on the shoulder and tell him "don't do anything to bugger it up, son, 'cos you won't get any second chances with a girl like that one".

So they settled into a modern two-bedroomed flat in Southbourne, with a slightly obstructed view of the sea though the bathroom window, only a short walk from the primary school that Sally taught in and just a ten minute drive from Humphrey's station.

Part of the attraction of Bournemouth was its proximity to beaches and countryside…but especially the beach. Humphrey had grown up an Oxfordshire village and had encountered the coast only occasionally as a child, but he had always remembered the sense of freedom he felt walking on a beach, gazing out to sea. The openness appealed to him; he'd always felt 'closed in' among the streets of his home village – over-large for the space allocated to him. How much of this was the result of a rather formal restrictive childhood, he couldn't say.

Here, on the coast, he had the freedom he craved. Sally had moved to Bournemouth for much the same reason. Her priorities were slightly different – surfing, yachting, pony hacking. The first and only time Humphrey had been on a horse, he'd promptly fallen off and broken his wrist, and it was widely agreed among her yachting friends that he was a liability on a boat. He actually quite enjoyed surfing and he liked the laid-back lifestyle and the company of his fellow surfers, but was no good at it. The third time he'd received a stern ticking off from the lifeguard who had had to come to his rescue, he gave it up as a bad job.

But that was OK. He enjoyed beachcombing on Mudeford Sandbanks while she sailed, and strolling the gravelled paths of the New Forest while she rode…and even just sitting at the Beach Café in Southbourne, watching her slim, muscular form as she surfed the waves expertly. It was all fine. Better than fine.

He was also beginning to settle down and find his niche among his colleagues at Dorset CID, helped by the fact that, by looking through the cold cases and asking some apparently trivial but crucially important questions, he finally solved the bizarre murder of a young mother that had dogged the local DIs for three years. He'd built up a small band of friends with whom he could share the occasional pint. He and Sally were a carefree young professional couple with no particular responsibilities, no mortgage to pay (as yet), and no children to support.

But then Sally started to grow restless…

* * *

**Notes for those who are unfamiliar with the UK police force:**

**CID is the Criminal Investigation Department, the branch within the UK police force that investigates serious crimes such as murder. It's distinct from the Uniformed Branch in that the officers within it wear plain clothes due to the nature of their work. It's also distinct from Special Branch, which deals with matters of national security, such as terrorism. Also, CID officers add the title 'detective' to the front of their rank, e.g. an Inspector becomes Detective Inspector, a Sergeant becomes Detective Sergeant and so on. Officers usually have to spend a couple of years in uniform before training for CID. Once there, they start as Detective Constable (DC) and take further exams to be promoted to Detective Sergeant (DS) and then Detective Inspector (DI) – which is the rank that Richard Poole and Humphrey Goodman hold. The DI will lead a small investigation team consisting of, usually, one DS and one or more DCs.**

**OSPRE is the name of the exams that officers take to get promoted through the ranks of CID.**

**The Met is short for the Metropolitan Police – in the UK, there are separate police forces for each UK county (sometimes termed Constabularies), apart from Greater London, which is served by the Metropolitan Police Service, based at New Scotland Yard. It's known colloquially as the Met. Officers working at the Met tend to earn slightly more than at other police forces, mainly because of 'London weighting' (addition to salary due to higher cost of living in London). It's the largest police force in the country and, in particularly serious crime cases around the UK, is often brought in to assist the local force.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A Good Man in Honoré**

**Once more, a disclaimer: all belongs to Robert Thorogood and the BBC.**

* * *

**Ch 2: Richard**

Sally had a number of logical reasons for wanting to sell up and leave Bournemouth after just over three years in the town. Humphrey found it difficult to argue with any of them.

First of all, her job was not at all as she'd expected. She'd trained in business administration originally, and had gone into teaching ostensibly to 'give something back', but in reality as a way of escaping the confines of the city. She enjoyed her more outside lifestyle, but she didn't enjoy the lower salary or the stresses of teaching. She felt that it would be far better to pursue her original career choice, and it would be far easier to do that in London.

More to the point, she'd grown up in north London and was beginning to miss the bright lights of the big city life – visiting friends in bars after work, going to concerts and plays, walking on Hampstead Heath on sunny Sunday afternoons. Possibly, it had something to do with having just entered her thirties – perhaps she was just feeling old and craving an earlier lifestyle, but there it was.

And, besides, her family lived in London. Unlike Humphrey's, her parents were a generous, fun-loving couple with a bewildering number of children and grandchildren constantly coming and going at their large Victorian detached house in Tufnell Park. Humphrey had always felt more at ease there than with his own family. Sally had two brothers and a sister, all married with kids, and all in the London suburbs. It was perhaps inevitable that she would feel drawn back eventually. He wondered a little whether, in her own mind, she saw it as a prelude to starting their own family – and also wondered why the prospect didn't thrill him. Anyway, the topic was never raised.

And finally, as she pointed out, Humphrey's job was hardly exciting. That odd murder apart, he spent most of his time investigating drug transactions in the deprived area of Boscombe, interspersed with the theft of luxury goods from the far richer populations of Branksome and Sandbanks. She pressed her point: his abilities were wasted at such a small Constabulary. Surely there'd be an opening at the Met? She had every confidence that he would be able to adjust to a big city mentality and that he'd enjoy the challenge. If he could make DI there, his salary would be much higher too.

Humphrey was not so certain. It would mean starting again, getting a new group of colleagues used to his odd but effective methods, and he was tired of being laughed at behind his back by people who assumed he was far stupider than he was. He probably could make it work, but he'd miss the coastline and the sense of peace it gave him at the end of a frustrating day. It would mean leaving another set of friends behind too.

Nevertheless, Sally prevailed, a transfer to the Met was sought and granted, and they moved into the ground floor of a semi-detached house in Enfield. Sally celebrated by getting tickets for Centre Court at Wimbledon. She lost no time in securing a well-paid job in marketing for an international shipping company.

Humphrey was initially nervous of the hard-edged CID officers at the Met – they had a reputation for being dismissive of county-trained detective inspectors – but he found that he fitted in surprisingly well. They were more tolerant of less conventional methods; if an officer got the job done and was loyal to his comrades, then that was all they cared about. Most of them were single or else childless, like himself, and were consequently more sociable at the end of a tough week. He learnt fairly early on that it was considered good form for a new DI to turn up at their 'local' on a Friday night and be prepared to stand his round. Once more, he became "good old Humph", but there was less sniggering and more camaraderie here in London then there had been in Bournemouth. With his longer working hours and his drinking sessions with colleagues, he found that he was spending far less time with his wife, but she didn't seem to mind, being busy enough with her own friends at work.

He'd learnt about the importance of the Friday night drink from a colleague who had been referring to a fellow officer who went by the name of Richard Poole. This man had, it transpired, been something of a hermit. "You'd have understood him, Humph," the officer explained, "but you wouldn't have liked him. Right miserable bastard, he was. We had a party when he left – by which I mean _after_ he left."

Poole had apparently been isolated – or had isolated himself perhaps - in a depressingly dark corner of the communal office. Since his departure some six months before Humphrey arrived, it had lain empty. Humphrey had been a little confused by that, having assumed that he'd been brought into to replace Poole, but it turned out that the DI was merely on an extended placement and his job was being kept open for him. His colleagues had shown their feelings about that by covering the temporarily empty desk with dusty piles of unwanted stationery.

For some reason, even as he settled into his new role and grew used to the faster pace of city policing, Humphrey found himself drawn to that dusty corner. Initially, his kind nature rebelled at the idea of a fellow officer being treated so shabbily by his colleagues, however socially inept he might be. But more than that, he felt a strange sense of fellow-feeling with the mysterious Poole.

Later on, he grew obsessed with the spectre of this unknown quantity. Poole's name had been mentioned more than once in discussions about previous cases – usually a reluctant nod to an unusual but effective method that had led to a crime being solved. The irony was that Poole's methods were not dissimilar to Humphrey's own, with their focus on 'the means, the method and the opportunity'. His colleagues might have disliked him, but they had to acknowledge the value of the man's obvious brilliance and dogged determination. Comments such as: "Remember when Poole solved that case by sorting that bag of marbles by size? That was _really _weird" only served to whet Humphrey's curiosity further.

Humphrey often (but privately) felt that Richard Poole's methods were not all _that _odd. After all, they _worked_. He personally couldn't work out what was wrong with an old-fashioned board and a bunch of photographs; far better than a sophisticated computer programme that would go wrong as soon as he looked at it. Occasionally, when he was stuck with an investigation, he'd find his eyes going to that deserted corner and would wonder what Poole's insight would be.

He felt he could instinctively understand this prickly but intelligent stranger. If he knew Sally was going out for dinner with friends, he would occasionally stay late and look through old files of Poole's cases, admiring his reasoning and methodology. In the spiky, rather jerky writing he found in the files, he felt he could hear the man's voice. DI Richard Poole would, of course, be fluent, concise and brilliantly confident in his delivery. He wouldn't stutter or go off at a tangent, like Humphrey. People would listen to him with respect. A man like Richard Poole wouldn't have to put up with poorly disguised eye-rolling and patronising smiles. _Poole _wouldn't have to plaster a grin on his face every time someone slapped him on the back and called him "good old Humph".

He regretted the fact that he hadn't worked alongside the man. All he knew was that he'd been temporarily transferred to "some God-awful little mosquito-infested backwater of an island somewhere in the Caribbean". Somehow, even that unattractive description sounded impossibly alluring.

Humphrey envied him. He had visions of Richard lying in a hammock in Hawaiian shorts, looking out over a peaceful tropical bay, beer in hand. It sounded wonderful – after his years of self-imposed isolation at the Met, Poole must really love his exile to paradise. The image appealed to his sense of justice; it was surely right that an intelligent but misunderstood detective was now enjoying a more relaxed lifestyle.

The fact that he _was_ enjoying it was confirmed by the fact that Poole didn't apply to return to his old job after a year, even though he'd apparently been informed that it was still open. Instead, it was announced that Poole had become Chief Inspector on the island of Saint-Marie. The reaction of Humphrey's fellow officers was something along the lines of 'good riddance to bad rubbish'. Humphrey's own reaction was disappointment that it was unlikely he'd ever get a chance to work with Richard Poole.

Life went on and another year passed, during which Humphrey becoming involved in a long and complicated case involving a large people trafficking ring that took up the majority of his time. The case involved extensive travel in the Far East and North Africa, and he put in some good investigative work that led to the ring being broken up and its chief members being arrested and charged. His satisfaction with this result and the impact on his reputation at work kept him happy. His obsession with Richard Poole lessened, although he occasionally used some of the DI's methods in his own investigations. Occasionally, he wondered whether he ought to contact the man – acknowledge Poole's contributions to his cases…but that seemed like excessive, 'stalkerish' behaviour, and he doubted that Poole would appreciate it.

He found himself dreaming of tropical islands with white sand beaches and dazzlingly blue seas increasingly often. It took him longer than it should have done to work out the reason why.

* * *

The opportunity came out of the blue, via a rumour that Poole had finally got fed up with his exotic posting and would be coming back. As the rest of the team bemoaned the news, Humphrey found his mind turning to the job itself. If Poole was vacating the post, did that mean the job would be available?

He did a little digging. Saint-Marie was a fairly compact island. Its police force had responsibility for a number of smaller outlying islands, but appeared surprisingly under-resourced for its geographic coverage; he assumed this meant it was a relatively crime-free area. Perhaps that was why Poole was returning – no longer a big enough challenge? There was only one DI position at the small police station in Honoré, supported by a sergeant and a couple of junior officers. As far as he knew, that post would be vacant once Poole returned. A return to small-town policing might suit Humphrey, and the exotic location would be fun – a kind of adventure. Humphrey had enjoyed his travels during the past year, even though they had revolved around investigations, and he'd developed a taste for tropical locations.

It did make a fair amount of sense. If he applied, perhaps Sally could get a transfer? Her company had substantial links with the Caribbean. Or perhaps, she could find something local to do – even set up her own business. Someone as bright and as ambitious as Sally could always turn an opportunity to her advantage, and she had an adventurous streak too.

He tentatively mooted the idea with his Chief Superintendent. The man was sympathetic but couldn't confirm that Poole was even leaving the post. It turned out that he was coming to the UK briefly as part of an investigation, but the Chief Super hadn't heard that Poole intended to stay. Nevertheless, if Humphrey felt he could offer something, then while he would be sorry to lose such a good detective, he'd certainly support his application to the Commissioner, etc., etc…

Next, Humphrey, even more tentatively, raised the opportunity with Sally. He wasn't sure what her reaction would be – in fact, he wasn't sure of much these days. He didn't see an awful lot of her, and when he did, she seemed reasonably happy but a little distant.

They hardly ever did anything together, and their sex life had declined since the move to London, which he assumed to be his fault. It was just that the job was _so _time-consuming, and he'd had to put in all that extra time on the trafficking case, and then sometimes, when he got home, he was too knackered to do anything more than make a coffee and sit in front of crappy TV. He could hardly blame her for not being so interested in him these days, could he? Sometimes, he feared that they'd prematurely reached a state of comfortable but essentially boring middle-aged domesticity, albeit one without the usual 2.4 kids.

When he raised the topic of Sainte-Marie, he expected her to explode, to ask him if he was _serious_, to point out the many reasons why it was such a _bad_ idea. Sally had always been good at making logical decisions, and no doubt she'd find half a dozen immediate and major flaws to his plan. Much to his surprise, however, her reaction was reasonably positive.

"Well, it would be a major change…but I suppose we could make it work."

"_Really_? You mean it?" He was astounded. "You really wouldn't mind leaving London behind for this?" For _me_…for _us_? was the unspoken subtext to this.

"Well…" She hesitated and bit her lip, uncharacteristically hesitant. "You obviously want to, and…it'll be something different, anyway."

Exalted beyond belief by this unexpected reaction, he went ahead with the preparation of his application for the post of the Chief Detective Inspector of Sainte-Marie, to be submitted the moment Poole announced his resignation. In the process of this, he didn't notice that Sally's responses to the topic grew quieter, her enthusiasm more muted. Whenever he asked her, she still seemed firmly in favour of the move, and yet appeared to make no effort to prepare for it. She wouldn't hand in her notice at work ("better to wait and see what turns up when you get confirmation, don't you think?"), or their notice to their landlord ("after all, I wouldn't be able to leave immediately, and I'd need somewhere to stay until we've moved all our things"). It was all perfectly sensible, of course – he'd expect no more of her. After all, Poole hadn't resigned quite yet, and even if he did, Humphrey wasn't assured of the post.

Much later, he would be able to acknowledge that he _had_ always known she was unhappy about the move. Subconsciously, Humphrey had realised that their relationship had grown stale. It was possible that this desire for the Sainte-Marie post was at least partially borne out by a perceived need to galvanise his relationship. In a fresh location, learning a new culture and adjusting to the climate and way of life would be a challenge that would push them together again. Their London lifestyle was choking the life out of their marriage. _He_ knew it, and _she_ knew it…the big question was, would she show that she still believed in _them_ by coming with him?

* * *

In the event, Humphrey was unable to submit his application, for the simple reason that Richard Poole was not, after all, resigning. It really _was_ just a flying visit to London, and Humphrey didn't even set eyes on the man, as he was called away to the scene of a particularly gristly murder on the same day.

The disappointment lay heavy in his gut. He saw his life continuing as a neat sequence of work, pub, bed, and work again, day in, day out, with an occasional polite exchange of words with his wife – he could hardly even term them _conversations_ these days. Sally was as nice as ever, commiserating with him on the post and being kind enough not to point out that it had been silly of him to get so excited in the first place.

He felt deeply tired – _exhausted_. Not physically, although the hours he worked were tough enough, but mentally. It was a struggle to force himself out of bed in the mornings, sometimes even to put one foot in front of the other. In Bournemouth, he could always counter mental fatigue with a peaceful, refreshing, early morning walk on the deserted beach; here, even if he had the time, there was nowhere to go.

One Monday morning, nearly three months after his application was abandoned, as he walked into New Scotland Yard, he was aware of a certain degree of excited whispering among a group of uniformed officers hanging around the reception area. He frowned, his tired senses immediately sharpening. It was clear that something fairly major was going on. No one looked at him, and it wasn't in his nature to gate-crash a private conversation, so he continued on his way to his office, wondering when he would find out.

As it turned out, he didn't have long to wait. The atmosphere in the large, open-plan CID office was strangely subdued, even for a Monday morning. One of the other DIs spun around on his office chair as Humphrey passed his desk.

"You heard the news? About Poole?"

"No – what?"

The DI grimaced, looking a little discomforted as he spun back. "Only gone and got himself bloody killed. Or suicide. They're not sure which."

Humphrey froze. He found his eyes turning again, automatically, to that dark corner desk, covered with dusty old stacks of paper as usual. He'd occasionally imagined what Poole's response would have been if he'd returned to his job – he imagined the man muttering in annoyance as he cleared his desk. For some reason, he hadn't thought about whether Richard had come back to his old office when he'd come over for his short visit – no one had mentioned it and he hadn't thought to ask. If he _had _come in during that visit, would he have cleared the desk anyway, even if he hadn't planned to stay for long? He was just the type to be fussy enough to do so.

Well, he'd never clear it now.

Humphrey felt a sudden sensation of deep grief, so sharp that it nearly doubled him over. He clutched at his stomach and took a sharp breath, closing his eyes against the pain. Oddly, he had an inappropriate desire to laugh – how utterly _ridiculous_ to mourn someone you had never met! – and then he realised it was just the shock. Ironic that despite years of dealing with nasty deaths and recognising shock in the newly-bereaved, he failed to recognise the same reaction in himself.

"Sir?"

It was his DS, a competent young woman called Barrett, and he had the horrible feeling that she'd been calling his name for a while. He opened his eyes and noticed that one or two of his colleagues were looking at him strangely.

"Are you OK, Sir?"

"Yes," he assured Barrett. "Just thinking of…something. What is it?"

"The Chief wanted to see you as soon as you got in this morning."

As Humphrey hurried towards his boss's office, he had a fair idea of what was going to be asked of him. He wasn't sure precisely how he felt… He'd wanted the job of course, but not like _this_.

He'd have to tread very carefully. He had no real sense of how Poole's colleagues might be feeling – clearly it must have been an awful shock to find themselves investigating his death.

Of course, it wasn't very clear how close they had been to him. If he'd been as unsociable with them as with his London colleagues, they might not have had that great a working relationship with him. Though…if that was the case, surely he wouldn't have stayed on? But then, it sounded as if Richard Poole had been impatient with the niceties of office friendships – it was more than likely he'd just led his team in a formally professional manner and they'd probably respected his abilities even if they didn't care for him personally very much.

His main source of information would probably be that DS of his – what was her name, now? Something French. Camilla? Camille? Anyway, he'd soon find out what she'd thought of her deceased boss.

Of course, his speculations about Richard Poole meant that, when he _did_ finally meet DS Camille Borday, he was entirely unprepared for the look of utter devastation on her face.


	3. Chapter 3

**Rather annoyingly, I've just discovered that I've got Sally's profession wrong – she's a botanist! Oh well, it's a minor thing… She seemed more like a hard businesswoman type, to be honest.**

**Usual disclaimer: characters belong to ****Robert Thorogood and the BBC.**

* * *

**Ch 3 Sainte-Marie**

From the moment he stepped off the plane, Humphrey loved Sainte-Marie.

He'd discovered an enjoyment of tropical climates during the trafficking investigations in Hong Kong. He'd been conveyed to an air conditioned hotel and then to the local air conditioned police station in an air conditioned car with tinted windows, and his trip could just as easily have ended up like his previous trips to Moscow or Tangiers where he might as well have never left Heathrow. If it hadn't been for the fact that he was in those locations to interview local gang members, he might not have remembered where he was. In Hong Kong, though, he gave his minders the slip for half a day, during which he wandered around Kowloon getting utterly lost and enchanted by the bustle and confusion. He loved being a stranger, intruding into lives that he never knew existed; he _loved_ not understanding the language or the culture – indeed, not having the foggiest idea what was going on around him.

Sainte-Marie promised a similar experience. He was looking forward to experiencing life there – new food and drink, local music, the beach life. And he wanted Sally there with him – he _yearned_ to recapture the happiness of their early days. She was an adventurer like him, and together they would _learn_ this island and – perhaps – even make it their home too.

Even the heat was welcome. Yes, it adhered his crumpled shirt to his back and his jacket smelt less than fresh, and yes, it did feel like he was walking through a pool of warm water, but in an odd way, it also energised him. He felt as if he was getting in touch with his own body; as if the trickle of sweat was confirmation of his continuing existence.

Or, at least, he _would_ have felt that if he hadn't currently felt as if his head was full of cotton wool and as if he could sleep for a week.

He _knew_ the score. He was out there to solve a murder, and there was no guarantee that the Commissioner would keep him on. He knew the Chief had put in a good word for him, but he also knew that he was expected to hit the ground running. Whatever else he'd been to them, Richard Poole was still one of their own, and they'd want answers. Cops never liked losing a colleague; even at the Met, officers came up to him while he was clearing his desk and wished him luck with "catching the toe rag that got Poole".

So he _should_ have spent the flight alternating between power naps and checking his file of details on Richard's death, so that he arrived as fresh as possible. However, Humphrey found it hard to relax. There'd been something about Sally's behaviour at the airport – something about the way she'd clung to him before he left…

They shouldn't be parted for too long – she had to serve out her notice at her company and then the flat was being let, so she was putting the rest of their belongings in storage…but, despite all that, she could be joining him in as little as two weeks. The thought elated him and unnerved him, in equal measure. What if she hated Sainte-Marie? What if it was all a colossal mistake and she blamed him for ruining their lives? The 'what-if's' span around his head for most of the flight; he couldn't concentrate on the case, his chair was uncomfortable so he couldn't sleep and then, eventually, he passed out from a combination of stress and sheer exhaustion, about two hours before the arrival time. Consequently he had to be woken by a flight attendant on arrival so he could stagger off the plane and into the chaos of customs and immigration.

He arrived at Horore police station severely jet-lagged and sweaty, struggling with his cases, and acutely aware that he was making a very bad first impression – not just on his potential boss but on the small group of officers clustered on the verandah. The looks of bemused contempt on the faces of the two men, he could recognise easily, and his heart sank, even as he plastered a cheerful smile on his face. _Here we go, Humphrey_…

He knew that he could befriend them, make them understand his methods, just as he'd done with colleagues in the past, but it would be exhausting. And on top of that, he had the spectre of Richard Poole to live up to.

Still - contempt he could overcome. But it was the moment when he saw that look of utter devastation on the face of Camille Bordey that he realised the situation was going to be far more complicated this time.

* * *

Somehow, he struggled through the first day, and then the second day, propping his eyes open with coffee when he could grab it. Even Catherine's lethal concoction seemed to help, in an odd way. The case proceeded slowly – which of the old university friends had the motive to kill Richard and why _there_? Which of them had the opportunity during the party?

And – although he had tried to suppress his thoughts from the moment he met her, feeling oddly disloyal to Sally for even thinking them – had Richard _realised_ that his extraordinarily beautiful Detective Sergeant was in love with him?

It became fairly clear that there had never been an acknowledged relationship between Camille and Richard. He suspected that Dwayne, at least, knew how Camille had really felt about her boss – smart man, that Dwayne, he might lack Fidel's attention to detail, but he knew all about human psychology. But had _Richard _known? And, if he _had_, Humphrey couldn't help wondering why he'd done nothing about it. Who could resist Camille – had he been a _monk_? Or gay, perhaps? He considered this possibility briefly – had Richard been in a relationship with one of the male suspects? – before dismissing it just as quickly. It was quite clear that neither James Moore nor Roger Sadler were interested in men.

Of course, he may have simply not been interested in Camille Bordey. It was more likely, though, that he _had_ been but had chosen not to act on his feelings. She was his junior officer, after all, and there would have been all sorts of complications had he started a relationship with her. The strongest impression Humphrey had had of Richard Poole was that the man was deeply ethical. It was one of the reasons why he'd been so disliked at the Met – according to his colleagues, Poole would have had no hesitation in turning in a fellow officer if he'd uncovered any wrong-doing. With such a high expectation of other officers, Poole mightn't have wanted to fall below his own rigid standards.

It occurred to Humphrey that he really didn't know Richard Poole at all well. The _detective_ he felt he'd already met through his case notes at the Met, but the _man_ was still a stranger. He'd developed some suspicions. Richard was clearly liked, even loved, by his team, but it wasn't so clear to what degree he'd returned that affection. His desk was obsessively neat – and the team's initial reluctance to let Humphrey sit there suggested that they hadn't tidied it for him after his death, so it must have always been like that. Camille's mother's reaction at the bar was odd – why offer Humphrey _tea_? It would have been the last drink Humphrey would have wanted in that heat, but did _Richard _drink it? Richard's house had been cleared in preparation for Humphrey's arrival, but the lizard was an oddity and didn't really fit with the rest of the picture that Humphrey was building up about the deceased detective. He needed to hear Richard's own voice in order to understand him.

In the end, it was Camille who gave him the clue, while she was reading Richard's diary from his university days – and how could he forget the wistfulness in her eyes when she said that Richard had been in love with Sasha? She commented that it was sad to read a dead person's diary and learn about their dreams, especially when the dreams wouldn't now come true…and Humphrey had had a thought.

Later, when the case was solved and 'Sasha' and James Moore had been detained and charged - and after he had received that answerphone message from Sally that served only to confirm what he'd somehow already known – he turned his mind back to his suspicions. As a way of taking his mind off his own problems, because if he didn't, he'd probably end up drinking too much, he began to search his – no, _Richard's _– house.

He didn't think it likely that either Fidel or Dwayne would have found it while they packed Richard's possessions – Richard was clearly a secretive man and would have hated to have had his private thoughts revealed and discussed. When he did find the small, red leather book, stashed under a loose floorboard beneath the bed, Humphrey made a silent and heartfelt vow to Richard that the contents would never be shared with anyone else, even Camille.

_Especially_ Camille, if the diary revealed what he feared it might.

He pulled a chair to the open doorway that led out onto the verandah and savoured the fresh, salty sea breeze before opening the diary. The initial pages were innocuous enough. Humphrey was amused to discover that many of his early assumptions had been wrong. Richard hated the heat with a passion. He hated dressing down even more, so was prepared to suffer in his dark suit. He didn't care for the feel of sand between his toes and was nervous of the sea. There _was _a hammock in the house, but Richard had never made use of it. So Humphrey's visions of an Englishman in shorts with a beer, hanging out on the beach, had been wrong on almost every level. His entries about endless, weary attempts to find a decent cup of tea confirmed another suspicion. Humphrey wondered whether he'd left poor Catherine assuming that all English detective inspectors required tea in order to work efficiently.

As the diary continued, Richard seemed to become more resigned to his exile. There was one entry written in emphatically angry writing, describing the Commissioner in deeply unflattering terms – he didn't specify the man's exact crime, but Humphrey could match the dates to that time when the Met officers had been told that Richard was not reapplying for his job. It looked as if Richard had been 'played' by that wily individual – Humphrey made a mental note to himself to be on his guard with Selwyn Patterson.

Actually, a lot of Richard's diary was like that. He was discreet, not giving details of cases in a way that would allow any individual to be identified and providing very little in the way of personal information about any of his subordinates. He referred to the three of them by their initials alone. Humphrey appreciated that – clearly, Richard was taking nothing to chance. His heart ached at the realisation that he would almost certainly have liked Richard Poole very much. It was likely that _he_ would not have been quite _Richard's_ cup of tea, so to speak, but he was sure that the two of them would have found plenty of common ground. Just working on a case together would have been fascinating – he could understand why his team had become so loyal to his predecessor.

It warmed his heart to note that Richard was fond of Fidel and wrote of him in admiring terms. In some ways, Richard saw Fidel as the young man he might have become had he not been so lacking in social confidence. Humphrey could see that Richard envied the younger man's ability to balance a happy family life alongside his fierce commitment to his work. "I truly believe that F will be promoted to DCI one day", wrote Richard, "if he continues along the path he has taken." This was written in relation to Fidel's worries about taking his OSPRE sergeant exams, and Humphrey really hoped that Richard had managed to convey his pride to Fidel himself before his death. He was sure it would have done wonders for the younger man's confidence. He made another mental note to review Fidel's professional development and make sure he had plenty of opportunities to develop in his new role.

Richard's relationship with Dwayne was a little more complex. Humphrey himself rather liked the laid-back constable, but he suspected that Richard might have found his laissez-faire attitude to work rather irritating. He hoped that it had been as obvious to Richard as to himself that Dwayne was a quick-witted officer who _did_ care about upholding justice in his community, and that he simply had his own ways of getting his work done. He felt it probably was – Richard didn't mention Dwayne much, but when he did, the comments were usually positive: "As usual, D used his persuasive charms to get the answer we needed – not sure what we'd have done if he hadn't". Humphrey needed to ensure that he made it clear to Dwayne that his methods were appreciated, just in case Richard hadn't had the opportunity.

And then, there was Camille. Richard was cautious in his mentions of her, almost as if he was trying to deny his own admiration. But…who could possibly _not_ admire her? It wasn't just her looks - in the short time that he'd come to know her, Humphrey had been able to look beyond the obvious beauty to see the person inside. She was deeply intelligent and had a knack for making the right connections within a case. She was also very strong, carefully hiding her grief for Richard behind a stoical expression – just occasionally he saw the terrible sadness and bewilderment in her eyes. She was kind, too – far kinder to _him_ than he deserved, with his clumsy attempts to say the right thing. It had been kind of her to invite him to join them for drinks, and it had been a struggle to do the right thing and turn the invitation down.

Camille would have loved Richard passionately if he had acknowledged his feelings for her. Humphrey idly wondered about the happiness of such a man, to have the full force of the young French woman's passion and affection focused on him, and him alone… He shook his head to dislodge such images – how could he even _think_ such things when Sally had just left him? – and refocused on the diary.

For it was true that Richard _did _have feelings for Camille, in a small way, at least. It was there between the lines, mostly. Little snippets, here and there:

"As usual, I could rely on C to come up with the important fact – the one that saved the case."

"C wore red today. It's funny - I don't normally like red that much."

"Hotter than ever today. Why doesn't C ever look too hot? Must ask."

"Nearly lost the suspect but managed to spot him by moonlight shining off his jacket. C's hair shines silver in moonlight, like a curtain of stars."

"Night at the bar. As usual C wanted me to dance. Would rather stay seated, got two left feet and anyway, I can watch her better that way."

"Wonder if C would really like Clacton?"

And, finally and most poignantly, on the day of that fatal party:

"Will have to confront H, don't want to, but it's not fair on S's memory. Hate parties, anyway. Wonder if C would come and rescue me if I asked? Would she come anyway – somewhere, anywhere - with me? Maybe I should just ask her. Just a drink or something. Am sick of trying to do the right thing. Maybe I'll ask tomorrow."

* * *

Humphrey sighed as he closed the diary. He rubbed his eyes, noting with surprise that it was getting dark outside. He'd been reading for almost two hours. He struggled out of the deck chair

His speculations about Richard's feelings for Camille and discovery of the diary had done much to take his mind off Sally's shock announcement, but he found himself returning to it now.

He leaned in the open doorway, Richard's diary still in his hand, and listened to the message again and again, trying to will it to say something different each time. Maybe there was a follow-up message - maybe she'd changed her mind and had rung back to say she was sorry and that she _would _be coming after all, _would _be trying to make a go of it – and maybe in his clumsy way he'd deleted the message without hearing it? Somehow he knew that that wasn't the case. Had she even handed in her notice or put the flat on the rental market, as she'd claimed? He'd been too busy, having been given just 36 hours to get packed and on his way – he'd just assumed that she would organise everything after he'd gone. But now, that prolonged hug at the airport made sense. Sally had _never _had any intention of joining him – she'd known it back then, and was silently saying goodbye for more than just a few weeks.

He felt a heavy depression coming over him. His marriage had _failed_. Only 38 and he was a _failure_ in this, as in almost anything he had ever tried to achieve. He could just imagine Dad. "_I told you, son, don't bugger this up. You won't get another chance"_. The old man was probably right, too.

He put Richard's diary down on the bed, carefully and walked out of his house and onto the sand. The sun had set and the stars were starting to appear; he could hear nothing but the muffled sounds of laughter from the town, just along the coast, interspersed with the gentle lapping of the waves. He sat down near the tide's edge, hugging his knees and resting his chin on them.

She'd said that she didn't love him anymore. How long had that been coming on? Had he not noticed something obvious? Could he have even done anything about it? If he hadn't given in and moved to London, would they still be together? But then, Sally had wanted to move – if they hadn't, she might have left him even sooner.

The cold reality was that this had _always_ been on the books. He'd told Camille, only half-jokingly, that Sally had often told him when to shut up – and it _was_ true that she'd frequently found him annoying, particularly when her friends were around. Traits that had seemed amusing and even endearing in a fairly new boyfriend had quickly become a serious irritant once they had got married.

It was the little things – the way he insisted on walking on the outside of a pavement and opening doors offended her feminist sensibilities. She hated the way he rambled on and on ("_I'm trying to_ _think!")_. He tended to hog the middle of the bed, so she was always pushing him away in the summer months ("_God, Humph, do you have to be such a hot lump_?"). He couldn't get her favourite drink quite right ("_OK, I suppose I'll have to fix it myself, since you can't follow a simple instruction_"). He couldn't follow recipes to the book, he was always late for dinner dates with friends, he was so often _wrong. _And she'd always smile and be very _nice_ about it, but it was there. The suppressed sigh of irritation, the look of mild disappointment in her eyes. It was his mother all over again… gradually, so gradually that he hadn't even noticed it happening. And she was always _right_ too, that was the thing. He really _was_ stupid about certain things.

His mind turned to Camille. Which was worse, he wondered, to love someone and never have it openly reciprocated, or to have your love returned and then lose it? What was it they said – "it's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all"? Something like that. Anyway, the point _was_, here he was wallowing in self-pity when he should _really_ be thinking of someone else whose loss was far more terrible. At least the woman he loved was still well and still living, even if she was no longer in his life.

Angry with himself, he got up abruptly and strode back to the house. He hadn't yet unpacked – part of him had been waiting until Sally arrived, since she'd probably have a better idea of where things should go. Well, she wouldn't be coming now, so _he'd_ have to sort it out.

Once he'd unpacked and stowed his cases, he went through the house, picking up bits of rubbish that had been left behind when Fidel and Dwayne had quickly packed up Richard's belongings. He assumed they were no longer needed, scraps of paper, broken tools, dirty old rags, a single hole-y sock. He gathered all this up into a small pile and took it out onto the beach, a safe distance from the house. Humphrey had been a boy scout and, for all his domestic faults, was more than capable of collecting together some driftwood and creating a campfire.

When the fire was blazing nicely, he went back into the house and eyed the book contemplatively. It seemed _wrong _to keep the diary. Richard clearly wouldn't have wanted anyone else to read it – not in Sainte-Marie anyway. It would be easy to just toss it on the fire, and nobody but him would be any the wiser. But, on the other hand, did _he_ have the right to burn it? Shouldn't that be the decision of someone who knew and loved him?

"Hello? Are you there, Sir?"

He heard Camille's voice approaching from the verandah. He fumbled to slip the book out of sight under the pillow. As he turned away, his hand caught on something on the bedside table, sending it flying to the ground with a crash.

"Ah, you _are_ here, then." She appeared in the open doorway and leaned against the door frame, raising her eyebrows.

He gave her a guilty look as he retrieved the remains of what looked like a rather hideous ornament, in the shape of a conch shell and covered in glitter. "Er…do you suppose this was of any value?"

She gave it a dismissive look. "I shouldn't think so. It wasn't – it didn't belong to…" She swallowed, looking away for a moment. "I think it preceded him. He probably didn't bother to throw it away."

"Oh, well." He chucked the bits in the bin and dusted his hands off, feeling a little hot and acutely aware of her gaze."

"I'm not disturbing you, am I?" She sounded a little tentative.

He waved a hand casually, forcing a smile. "Disturb away. I'm still too jet-lagged to sleep properly. I – um – I'd offer you a drink, but I don't know if I'm organised enough…" He hadn't had time to go shopping, but Fidel had offered to deliver a few basics – milk and so on. He located the fridge and wandered over to it, more in hope than expectation.

"Oh, you don't have to -," she began, as he opened the fridge door and whistled at the row of beer bottles. _Basics indeed_….

"Aha! Just what I need." He pulled out a couple of beers, passing one to Camille. "Good work, Fidel."

"I wasn't planning on staying," she murmured, as she opened her bottle. "I just wanted to check that you were alright – that you'd settled in."

"I assumed you'd be making a night of it with the others. Um – Richard, and all that -," he added, awkwardly, as they sat down on the sand near the fire.

Her eyes widened. "We _did_. It's after midnight. After all, tomorrow _is_ a working day – Sir."

"Good point." _Call me Humphrey_, he wanted to add, but perhaps it was a little too soon for that. "Er…the body – Richard, I mean… what time do they fly him home?"

"Why do you ask?" Was that sharpness in her tone? He didn't know her well enough to be able to interpret.

"Ah, well, I just thought I might send a letter with…him. To his parents. Commiserations, and so on."

"I thought you didn't know him?"

"I didn't. It doesn't matter." He could always get the address later, from Richard's files. Send the diary to his parents. Possibly they would like to read about their son's time on the island – and then they could make the decision about who else should know. It wouldn't be his decision, anyway.

She sighed, staring into the fire. "I still can't quite believe it. You know? Less than a week ago, he was still here."

"It must be very difficult for you – all," he ventured, cautiously.

She shook her head and put the bottle down undrunk. "I don't want this after all. I'm sorry."

"That's quite OK." He scrambled to his feet as she stood up.

She hesitated briefly and glanced towards the verandah. He had the impression that she was looking for someone…someone who would never stand there again. She shook her head again and turned towards the road and her car.

"Good night, Sir."

"Yes, of course. See you tomorrow, Camille."

He stood and watched until she drove away. This was going to be a lot more difficult than he had anticipated.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you for your lovely reviews! Just a quick note to say that the characters, and most of the dialogue in this chapter, belong to the wonderfully talented ****Robert Thorogood  
**

* * *

**Chapter 4: Moving On**

The peace of an early Sunday morning on the remote beach was disturbed only by the gentle waves, the squawking of distant seabirds… and an occasional heartfelt curse.

"Blast! Why won't it just… oh, buggering bollocks!"

Humphrey dropped the poles that just _wouldn't_ fit together the way the drawing suggested they should. Absently, he scratched the sunburn on his bare shoulder as he glared at the innocent sections of the would-be hammock, currently strewn across the white sand.

He was…getting there. That was about all he could say.

Well, it wasn't _quite _as bad as that. He'd had plenty to do, starting with unpacking the additional luggage that had followed him by two weeks and finding places for everything in his 'shack'. Humphrey was by no means a hoarder, but he _had_ been expecting Sally to join him, so there were a fair number of favourite books, CDs and DVDs, to say nothing of bedroom linen, kitchen items and so on to find homes for. Looking around the small house, he did wonder what on earth had made him pack so much; in London, it had felt as if he were travelling light. In his darker moments, he wondered what Sally would do with all the stuff he'd left behind. Would she keep it until he returned, or would she want to be clear of anything that reminded her of him? He supposed she'd pay for a storage unit until his return - she wasn't vindictive.

Then he'd needed to sort out his new desk at work. Not that _that_ took a lot of work, but he'd spent half a day tidying away the few items he'd bought with him, made a little nervous by the curious but so far tolerant gaze of his three subordinates. He'd also spent some time looking through the files of open cases – not that there were many of them, as DI Poole was clearly quite efficient in tying up his investigations. They were mostly trivial matters of petty crime, such as minor smuggling, pickpocketing of hapless tourists and so on – the kind of work that Fidel and Dwayne would investigate sporadically, but put to one side if something more urgent arose.

The downfall of a small team, he soon discovered, was that there wasn't an awful lot of cover in place. Each night and at weekends, only one of the team was theoretically 'on call' in the sense that they kept the mobile phone to which all office calls were rerouted when the tiny police station was closed. In reality, however, all other team members had to be prepared to be called into action at any time, night or day. When there was a case, with so few staff, there was very little down-time to be had.

Having said that, it was rare that they _were_ called out at inconvenient hours. Humphrey was beginning to get used to 'Caribbean time'. Although Honore Police Station made an effort to maintain the standard 9-5 working day and to provide some cover outside that, the rest of the island did not. While he sweated his way through the torrid afternoon heat, working through files at his desk as Camille, Fidel and Dwayne drowsed at theirs, the rest of Sainte-Marie appeared to sleep. It soon became obvious to him that no one would think of the worse of him if he stepped out for a cool afternoon drink at Catherine's bar or even popped home for a couple of hours, least of all his fellow officers, who'd probably take the opportunity for a nap anyway.

He'd also learnt that if he wanted to do some manual work, it was best to do it early in the morning, before the island heat reached its peak. Hence this hammock-building exercise, on his first full day off since arriving.

The morning sun beat down on the back of his neck as he gazed rather hopelessly at the mess of parts. It should be easy. Probably _would_ be for anyone but _stupid old Humph_, the acidic little alien voice at the back of his brain whispered.

He'd found the hammock in the house, still in its box and carefully stashed between a cupboard and the wall in the small kitchen area. It had a post-it note stuck to the side of it, covered in an untidy scrawl: "_Happy birthday, boss! Something to help you with getting that tan."_

Even if he hadn't recognised Dwayne's scrawl, he'd have known the likely sender. From what he now knew about Richard, nothing could surely have been quite as unwelcome as a hammock. Deferential Fidel wouldn't have had the nerve to give his DI such a jokey gift and no-nonsense Camille wouldn't have considered wasting her money. Richard had clearly grimaced at the hammock and stowed it in its current location without another thought. Fidel and Dwayne had either not noticed it or decided to leave it when they packed up Richard's possessions.

It had given Humphrey another insight into Richard. The diary had given him a strong sense of what Richard thought of his team, but this irreverent gift was interesting, because it suggested that his team had felt at ease with him. It didn't fit with the image of a stiff, unrelenting, humourless DI that Humphrey had received from colleagues back in London.

Well. Humphrey wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Richard might not have appreciated the sun, sea and sand, but _he_ certainly would – once he'd got the bloody thing sorted out. He pulled a face at the lizard on the verandah.

"Always read the instructions, Harry. Sally drummed it into me… ever since the great shelving collapse of 2003." He frowned at the instruction leaflet – who the hell _wrote_ these things, and why did the accompanying illustrations bear absolutely no resemblance to the pieces that had come out of the box? Surely he couldn't be _alone_ in finding these things utterly incomprehensible?

"Who needs instructions – how hard can it be?" he muttered, and then gasped in pain as he cut his finger.

With his bad luck, Humphrey was no stranger to minor accidents and always made sure he had a plaster somewhere in the vicinity. He continued to mutter, apparently to the lizard, but mostly to himself, as he clumsily attempted to staunch the blood and apply a plaster one-handed.

"So… we plough on regardless and inevitably end up bleeding. Not _entirely_ unlike my marriage, it seems. Well, I can't really put a sticking plaster on that, can I?" he added, rather bitterly, as he finally succeeded in sticking the dressing over the cut.

This oddly bitter mood was new to him; Humphrey was used to looking on the bright side. Why, then, did he currently feel as if he'd wasted some of the best years of his life on a relationship that had been doomed right from the start?

He shook his head impatiently – no good turning sour over it. That way led to… well, he only had to look at that damn diary, currently hidden under his mattress, to know _precisely_ where it might lead. He forced himself to look on the bright side – he was already making changes to his life. _Soon have this hammock up_, he thought to himself, as he cut the string, _and then I'll… oh_…

He sighed as he read further on in the instructions and realised his mistake. As he held the useless pieces of cord in his hands, he wondered precisely when they had become a symbol for his marriage. _Was_ there something he could have done to salvage it? Hadn't he always done precisely what Sally had wanted? Was that, in fact, the _real _problem?

His thoughts wandered to his team, wondering absently what they made of him. He had no concern about their ability to run the station in his absence, but he wondered whether they might be discussing him – their new boss. He imagined Dwayne making some droll comment regarding his appearance or eccentricities or clumsiness. Fidel might reprimand him, but would be secretly amused. And Camille? Would she even care? Would she come to his defence? Or was she still consumed by grief over Richard's loss?

Of the three of them, it was Camille that concerned him the most. She had started out openly hostile to him, but during the investigation into Richard's death, had softened considerably. However, since the night she'd visited him after he'd discovered the diary, she had grown quiet. Perfectly polite and friendly, of course, and she was a diligent sergeant, but she didn't initiate any conversation – she would speak only if spoken to. From time to time, she would stare into space, her eyes distant, and might not respond immediately if someone addressed her.

He didn't know her well enough to tell if this was the real Camille, but he couldn't help thinking that it was not. The reactions of her fellow officers and mother were enough proof. Catherine could hardly hide her anxiety and Fidel frequently threw her a puzzled look. Dwayne gave nothing away, but Humphrey noticed that when she was particularly quiet and unresponsive, he would pat her shoulder or give her arm an encouraging squeeze as he passed her.

His comment about not being able to put a sticking plaster over his marriage had made him think of Camille again. In a sense, it was much easier for him to move on – he was out of familiar territory and starting again in a place where everything was a new, distracting challenge. _She_ didn't have that luxury. What must it _do_ to her to have to go into that office every day and see a new man sitting at Richard's desk? How did she feel about driving the familiar route to his home and seeing untidy, awkward Humphrey waiting for her, instead of fastidious Richard in his dark suit? He wondered at the fact that she hadn't already sought a temporary reassignment away from the island – and then considered, a little uneasily, whether she still might. He'd approve a move if that was what she wanted, of course, but it would leave him with just Fidel for his DS, and the younger officer lacked Camille's experience.

It was almost a relief when the object of his thoughts rang his phone and he had to go and solve the mysterious murder of a stand-in girl on a film set. _Game face, Humphrey_.

* * *

It was ironic that one of the few topics that appeared to raise any enthusiasm in Camille was the supposed imminent arrival of Sally. Again and again, she would remind him of the fact… and again and again, he would open his mouth and try to tell her… but then he would see the spark in her eyes and that crooked little half-smile that animated her beautiful face, and he couldn't bear to.

Perhaps she clung to this subject as proof that _someone_ at least was in a happy relationship – maybe it lessened her own pain in some way. His heart sank ever further at the prospect of having to tell her the truth…which he would have to do very soon.

He'd made the mistake of telling her early on exactly when Sally was due to arrive, which was of course before he'd realised that she wouldn't be coming. Unfortunately, Camille seemed to have something of an eidetic memory (he suspected it was one of the reasons why she'd been deployed to undercover work in the past), and took almost any opportunity to remind him of the date and time.

Despite this, he was quite unprepared to have a bunch of flowers thrust into his hand as she turned the car towards the airport on the appointed day. Something else he'd learned about Camille was that, once on a case, she could be pretty single-minded and stubborn; he thought of it as rather a French characteristic. Soft, half-embarrassed objections didn't seem to work and eventually he had had to resort to shouting to get her to listen to him.

As soon as the car screeched to a halt, he stumbled out and walked, a little blindly, away from her. Now that it was inevitable, he didn't know where to start.

She followed him. "Her plane lands in 15 minutes!"

He forced himself to face her. "Yes…her plane gets here, but she won't be on it." He smiled, tentatively. "In fact, you could hardly call it her plane, really."

"She's not coming?" Her expression was still uncomprehending. It seemed almost perverse of her not to understand without further explanation, especially in view of her own abortive romance with his predecessor.

"She and I…" he stuttered, "- well, we're still married, obviously, but…our marital status is presently…"

Understanding appeared in those intelligent dark eyes. "You've split up with her."

"Or rather she's split up with me, so…" He shrugged, helplessly. "Anyway… it's just one of those things."

"I'm really sorry."

"Bit of a shock…" He met her eyes, forcing himself to admit it. "Although, if I'm totally honest, it's probably been on the cards for a while."

"Doesn't make it any easier," she replied, softly; strangely gentle for hard-headed Camille.

"Not sure how I'm going to muddle along without her," he admitted, sheepishly. "I'm a perfect _dunce_ when it comes to… well, _life_ really."

It was only the truth, after all. What _had_ he been before Sally? Just a lowly detective inspector, plodding along in Bournemouth and probably destined to live out his life in the provinces, with no chance of promotion or recognition. Whatever else she'd done, at least she'd encouraged him to make more of himself.

"_No_, you're _not_ -." It might have just been a polite denial, but he sensed a little more animation in her voice even as he shook his head.

"_Yes_. Yes, I _am_. I couldn't get anything right in the end. Even the little things…" He laughed bitterly, not wanting to say it, but somehow those sympathetic eyes seemed to draw more out of him than he wanted to say and he found himself gabbling, hardly even aware of what he was saying. "I – I'd make her a gin and tonic – ice, slice, dash of tonic, a – and I'd forget it had to be slimline – _silly Humph_. Couldn't even get _that _right."

He stopped abruptly, flushing with embarrassment. The sweat prickled his spine and he suddenly felt cold despite the thirty-five degree heat. He hadn't meant to…_reveal _so much. What would she think of him now? Cool, level-headed, oh so clever Camille. How she must _miss_ Richard Poole. That logic-driven, efficient, intelligent man… No wonder she'd fallen in love with him - who _wouldn't_? Even in the midst of his shamed misery, his heart ached for her and for him.

She seemed lost in thought for a moment, her eyes distant, before looking up at him again, her face animated. "Maybe you – being _here_," she gestured with her hands in that lively French manner he'd already grown to…_what?...love_? "Maybe it's the fresh start you need."

"_Absolutely_." He forced a smile. _Game face, Humphrey_. "New page, clean slate, square one and all that – yes. So, right…" He laughed again, embarrassed. "It's all rather awkward, oversharing with a colleague."

She grimaced, seeming a little embarrassed herself. "Not at all – you know, any time." Her voice, her manner, her face – all was gruffly professional once more. He had the strong impression that she generally preferred to keep her feelings to herself. It seemed unnatural to her, and he wondered whether she had tried to restrain her more 'French' characteristics and emotions out of concern for Richard's sensibilities. If so, that was a shame, for he found he rather liked this version of Camille, even if she _was _just being kind.

He almost wanted to laugh at himself, and would have done if he didn't fear offending her. What a _ridiculous_ thing to blather on about! Not being able to get a gin and slim right… how utterly _banal_! How…

_Oh_. _Wait a minute, though_…

* * *

When the case had been wrapped up, Thea Holmes' killer was safely behind bars, the dreaded paperwork was complete and he was – at last! – lying in the hammock, he found his mind returning to his earlier conversation with Camille. It seemed _silly_ to dwell on what she must think of him – silly to even imagine that she gave him a single thought when he wasn't there.

He had no doubt of her empathy – possibly, in some ways, his own unhappiness may have made him more human in her eyes. She might even forgive him his eccentricities – who knew? But, in any case, he was being selfish. How could he compare his own problems with hers? If he wanted to, there was nothing to stop him handing in his notice, getting on a plane and going back to Sally who was, after all, _still _his wife. If he tried hard enough, he _could_ get her back.

Which rather beggared the question why he _hadn't _gone straight back. It was just a job, after all, and he'd be more than welcome back at the Met. If she would have been so unhappy here, then why on earth wasn't he prepared to move back? Surely, if he loved her, he'd want to make her happy… Wouldn't he?

Deep in thought, he suddenly noticed the lizard on the verandah rail. As the delicate little creature jumped on his chest and the flimsy hammock gave way, sending him crashing onto the sand, he couldn't help wondering, just for a minute, exactly _who _had left _who_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Couple of notes: 'grockle' is an affectionately derogative term used in the south and west of England to describe clueless tourists. In Bournemouth, we often apply it to the idiots who go onto the beach for the day without bothering to use any sun protection cream, and then, once they resemble lobsters, will have to buy after-sun cream to soothe the burn. **

**Secondly, Humphrey's musings on Camille's habit of wearing as little as possible reminded me of working at a beach shop, where we girls could swan around in shorts and sun-tops if we wanted to, while our poor male colleagues were forced to wear trousers and shirts, and even ties. I've always wondered how Camille gets away with it!**

**Timing of this: just to clarify, it's set sometime between episodes 4 and 5 of series 3. Basically after Camille's father reappeared but before Humphrey decided to tell his parents about his divorce.  
**

**Usual acknowledgement of Robert Thorogood and Red Planet Pictures/Atlantique Production.**

* * *

**Chapter 5: Camille**

"And so I told her that if she wanted to set me up again, she should probably – _Sir_! Are you listening to a word I'm saying?"

"Hmm? Oh yes, of course I am. What's with the 'sir', though? We're off duty now."

His DS gave him one of her dazzling smiles to show that she forgave his distraction. Humphrey shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took another sip of his cold drink.

The diary was stuffed in his back pocket and currently felt as if it was burning a hole in his trousers. He'd pulled on a Hawaiian shirt to disguise its distinctive shape. It was one of those awful ones that Dwayne had been derisive of, but at least had the advantage of being suitably baggy. He still wasn't absolutely sure that he was making the right decision.

It was the appearance of Camille's father that had first put the idea in his mind. First of all, he'd considered posting the little notebook off to Richard's parents – had gone so far as to check the address in his predecessor's murder file – but something had made him hold off. He'd dithered over what to do for almost five months now.

He'd received certain impressions – from Poole's colleagues both here and in London; from the diary itself; from the man's neat organisation of files and notes. He didn't think that Richard had been a particularly happy man, not prior to his arrival in Sainte-Marie at any rate. A man who had been isolated at work and a limited social success at University was unlikely to have had a happy childhood; whereas the diary had revealed flashes of happiness here on the island. For most of his life, Richard had been a square peg in a round hole but somehow had found his niche in the most unlikely of locations.

Looking around the office, Humphrey had often found it hard to believe that Richard had managed to work here. He should have been appalled by the lack of uniformity, the quite blatant disregard of regulations, the lack of resources and scarcity of decent investigative equipment, frequently having to conduct his own experiments to avoid waiting for results from the forensics department on Guadeloupe. Dwayne's flouting of the rules must have driven him _mad_, and as for Camille, habitually dressing in as few clothes as she could possibly get away with while working…not that she wasn't pleasant to look at, but Humphrey felt that it was most unfair, when _he_ was still required to wear trousers and a shirt at least, even if he had forgone the tie as early as decently possible. How Richard had managed to carry on working in his dark suit and tie without expiring in this tropical heat, he had no idea.

The team and the job must have had _something_ going for them, though. As the diary went on, Richard's enthusiasm for his job had increased. As he began to settle into his new job, Humphrey began to understand why. There was satisfaction to be found in the solving of a case with such a small team. Back at the Met, he'd been involved in some high-profile cases, notably the people-trafficking ring, but always as part of a much larger team. And yes, there'd be a round of drinks on the DCI for the entire team when a big case was concluded, but it was easy to get lost in the crowd. _Here_, he was able to feel more in control of the cases and when the murderer had been apprehended and shipped off to the larger prison facilities on neighbouring Guadeloupe, he had a much stronger idea of the roles played by each member of the team and a greater sense of achievement.

In addition to Camille, Dwayne and Fidel, there was a small team of special constables who patrolled the island, dealt with minor incidents such as driving offences, and manned the station overnight and at weekends. In addition to this, Humphrey could request the support of the larger police force on Guadeloupe, but so far he had managed his cases with his own team…and he'd grown enormously proud of them over the months. Proud…and fond.

Five months! Had it really been that long? And yet, in many ways, he felt that he was finally starting to fit in. It had taken a while – Humphrey's enthusiasm had been hindered by his lack of understanding of the Caribbean way of life and his unerring ability to mistake the tourist traps for the real thing. Each time he made a mistake, he could almost see the word 'grockle' forming on the lips of his colleagues – or whatever the Sainte-Marie equivalent was. But they'd smile and he'd laugh off the mistake and learn from it. Now, when he walked barefoot along the sand from his beach house towards the seafood stalls, the traders would recognise him and be able to recommend something he'd like. He knew how to haggle at the market stalls, knew how to avoid buying imported food at inflated prices; he even knew where the best hole-in-the-wall restaurants were located. He'd learnt how to drive safely on the rough roads (although he was happy to leave that activity to his DS as much as possible) and was reasonably confident in navigating his way around the small island if he needed to.

And he'd learnt to navigate his way into a reasonably positive working relationship with each of his colleagues. Fidel was easy – a pleasant, hard-working keen young Sergeant. In his diary and in Fidel's own files, Richard had noted his ambition and determination, and Humphrey tended to agree that the young officer was destined for greater things. He hoped that he wouldn't lose the ambitious Fidel to the brighter lights of the Guadeloupe police department or beyond, but then, his family were likely to keep him well-grounded in Sainte-Marie.

Dwayne was trickier, but they had developed a healthy respect for each other's methods. A _lack_ of ambition was the constable's main issue, but Humphrey had no real problems with that. Every police department needed its 'insider' – someone who knew his way around the local petty crime scene. Also, he appreciated Dwayne's ability to keep Fidel out of trouble.

The toughest nut to crack had been Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey. Humphrey had worked with plenty of female officers in his time and usually had no problems getting along with them, but Camille could be…_prickly_. She was changeable - one minute quite laid back and 'Caribbean', the next utterly and passionately 'French'. She could be stormy if a case bothered her, and he had noticed that any case involving children or less-than-perfect fathers could provoke a snappy mood that would last several days.

When he met Camille's own father, he understood why. Until then, he'd been careful not to get involved in her private life, not really fancying being at the receiving end of her sharp tongue. But the encounter with her father had reminded him uncomfortably of his own family problems. He'd felt for Catherine as well as for Camille, and had hated to see tension mar the easy affection between mother and daughter. For once, he'd found himself getting involved in a colleague's personal affairs, and although he'd felt terribly uncomfortable and _English_ about the whole thing, he was glad he had.

He had been particularly embarrassed about his conversation with Camille outside the station, mentally cringing even as he spouted words about what a great job her mother had done in bringing her up. He'd hoped and prayed Camille wouldn't view his admiring comments as an appalling attempt to chat her up. It certainly wasn't his intention to do so – not that she _wasn't_ – that he _wouldn't_…but _no_. _Entirely_ inappropriate.

To his relief, Camille had appeared to take his awkward little speech at face value, and they had moved on as normal – except that their relationship wasn't _quite_ normal. There was something between them now – a quiet intimacy that went unacknowledged but was, nevertheless, _there_. Suddenly, Humphrey knew that if he needed a friend to talk to, she would be his first choice. Ironic that a French-Caribbean woman that he'd known less than half a year had become his closest confidante.

And she seemed to seek him out too. Not often, and not obviously, but there were subtle signs. She would turn up at the 'shack' unexpectedly, early on Saturday mornings, with two cups of coffee and a casual offer to show him some of the less well-known parts of the island while they weren't on duty. During a case, whenever she drove him home, it was now taken for granted that she would get out and join him on his verandah for a cold beer and a chat over the events of the day.

And the traditional Friday night drink went without saying. Humphrey reflected that it must be a universal practice – that in every country, there were detective inspectors buying their junior officers an obligatory beer in the local 'cop's bar' on a Friday night (or whatever the local beverage of choice might be). In this case – much to his continuing bemusement – the drink of choice was one of Catherine's lethal rum punches and the location just happened to be a tropical island.

And another unusual element was that his DS wasn't some gruff grizzled old sergeant, but instead a really quite _ridiculously_ beautiful woman. Admittedly, the form-fitting red dress was more likely to have been aimed at tonight's would-be blind date – yet another of Catherine's well-meaning arrangements, which had fallen through almost immediately when Camille had noticed him eyeing up a handsome young man in the mirror behind the bar. However, Humphrey didn't think he'd _ever _seen Camille dressed in anything that didn't look as if it had been made for her.

He grinned. "So I take it you've told Catherine to lay off the blind dates for now?"

Camille gave a mock-shudder. "I thought the last attempt was bad enough!" She shook her head, smiling slightly. "I know she means well… I guess she wants at least the _chance_ of grandchildren, one day. And she doesn't want me -."

She stopped, but Humphrey finished the sentence for her. "She doesn't want you to be lonely."

She sighed, instantly sobering. "She does mean well, but - ."

_But you're not ready to move on_.

He didn't say it out loud. He'd never openly acknowledged Camille's carefully hidden love for her former DI. It was an irony that those closest to her probably knew much more about her feelings than she realised – certainly Dwayne and her mother had guessed. But what good would it do to talk about them? Camille was a proud woman working in a tough profession. She didn't give her heart easily – it must have taken a lot for Richard to gain that privilege – and she might be embarrassed if she thought that her feelings had been so obvious to those around her.

She looked away from him towards the glittering water, her face serious. It was a slightly cooler Friday evening, if that meant anything in this torrid location, and a light breeze ruffled her curls. Humphrey found himself staring at her profile, mesmerised. Her features were fine and dark, almost Italianate with that strong nose and beautifully sculpted mouth. At times like this, she could look imposing, almost off-putting, but he knew her well enough by now to see behind the carefully constructed mask.

Most of the time, she was simply one of 'the gang'; both a quick-witted no-nonsense cop and an easy-going, sunny young woman, who knew how to have fun. However, there was also a certain sensitivity in her, a gentleness that one wouldn't normally associate with tough DS Bordey. He noticed it at random moments. At crime scenes, when an expression of pity would cross her face at the sight of another murder victim. At the bar whenever she gave her mother a glance of gentle, tolerant affection. In the little smile on her lips whenever Fidel proudly displayed photos of his tiny daughter. During moments at the shack when she would sit on the sand next to him, silently gazing out at a calm sea.

She looked back suddenly, catching his gaze, and he broke it quickly, feeling a prickling sensation of embarrassment as he fiddled with his glass. Her voice, when she spoke, sounded normal, though.

"So, where are Fidel and Dwayne? It's not like them to miss the Friday evening drink."

"Oh, we cancelled, when you mentioned the date." He risked looking up at her, grinning sheepishly. She looked a little flushed, but otherwise composed. "Fidel said something about getting his mother-in-law to babysit tonight, and Dwayne was last seen chatting up a rather pretty tourist. And since I assumed you wouldn't be free…"

She laughed. "I should not have allowed _Maman_ to organise the date on a Friday evening anyway. It does no good to break a tradition."

"A _tradition_?" He laughed. "I've only been here a few months, Camille."

She lifted her glass to him in an ironic toast. "You think we didn't meet here on a Friday night before you arrived, Humphrey?"

"Oh – well, of course you would have." It'd been on the tip of his tongue to say he hadn't expected Richard to be that sociable, bearing in mind his behaviour at the Met. And yet, the diary had hinted at particular occasions…

To take his mind off it, he asked: "So what made Camille Bordey join the police force, then?"

"Ah – well, that's a story." She laughed and knocked back her drink. "In fact, it is quite simple. It was the only profession that made sense to me – you know? I was OK at school, I guess. I was good at sports and languages and computer science and average at everything else. I enjoyed adventures. I didn't want to end up in an office somewhere. And no profession really appealed – _Maman_ thought I might become a nurse, but it would have been wrong for me. But I liked solving puzzles, and I had a strong sense of justice, and – and it just seemed _right_. Also, it was a chance to get away."

He raised his eyebrows at this, and she made a dismissive gesture. "Oh, don't get me wrong. I love Sainte-Marie. I grew up here. But there's not much opportunity – not if you're ambitious. And, back then, to _this_ bright young teenager, everyone seemed so - so…_parossiale_ – I don't know how you would translate that."

He grinned. "Well, I don't speak French, but I think I can make an educated guess at 'parochial'. That's sort-of how I felt about where I grew up too."

She smiled at him. "Did you? You must tell me more about that. Well, I was so arrogant, so sure of myself. _Maman_ wanted me to settle down and find myself a young man. I didn't want that."

"So you made your escape."

She nodded. "I had been thinking of moving to Guadeloupe, but then there was a police training programme I could go on, and it was in Paris where _Maman _grew up, and I hadn't been there apart from a visit to family when I was small. Paris -," she smiled as if in reminiscence, "– was _brilliant_. So beautiful and so vibrant! So many people, and all so smart and full of life! I expected to stay there much longer than I did. And there was a man for a while…it didn't last." She gave an expressive shrug. "He wasn't in the police and it became difficult to get the balance between the work and my personal life. I was doing a lot of specialist training and he wouldn't hear from me for a couple of weeks at a time... But for a while there… well, I was happy, I think."

She sobered a little and he tried to distract her. "From what _I_ hear, you were more of a female James Bond than a street copper."

She laughed, throwing him an amused look that told him she knew _exactly_ what he was trying to do. "_Oui_. That was _fun_. After training, I moved into undercover work. It suited me – I had to be fit, good with computers, able to think on my feet… And I had to be a good actor."

_And that's something that you're extremely good at, I suspect_.

She carried on, oblivious to his thoughts. "I was good at it and I enjoyed it. No two days were the same and the adrenaline rush was incredible. Well, I worked in Paris on various small cases for eighteen months and then there was a longer case in Marseilles, and another in Morocco, and by the time I returned to Paris, it didn't seem so exciting."

He nodded as he picked up his rum punch. He understood _that_, from his own experiences out in the field on the people-trafficking case. Not that he could have gone undercover – he'd have been hopeless at trying to assume a new identity – but brilliant, clever Camille would have been excellent at it.

She frowned, thoughtfully. "I didn't expect to find myself moving back to the Caribbean _quite _so quickly, but I was looking to move _somewhere_. For a while, I even thought about applying to the British police force…" She laughed as Humphrey choked on the mouthful he had just taken and nearly spat it back into his glass. "That would have been funny – non? I might have met you there!"

"_Me_ – oh, no. I only moved there just after you started working with Richard." He was still reeling from imagining the impact such an impossibly attractive young officer would have had on the grumpy old coppers at the Met. She would certainly have brightened up the Friday night pint.

She seemed to sense his thoughts. "Yes, well. I wouldn't have fit in there at _all_! I could tell that after Richard arrived."

"Um, well Richard wasn't _all_ that typical of the Met," he ventured cautiously, not sure whether or not this conversation was moving into dangerous territory.

Her smile vanished, very quickly. "No, I know that. He was treated badly by his colleagues." Her voice was flat.

"Yes, I think he rather was."

"It was unfair of them! They did not know what they lost…" She frowned and then shook herself visibly and carried on with her story, with the air of a woman determined not to dwell on certain issues. Her voice, which had grown a little intense, seemed to lighten again. "Anyway, as it turned out, a job came up in Guadeloupe – the people-trafficking case, which led to the murder that Richard was sent here to solve. Due to my background, my Commissionaire had recommended me for the job. And then, almost as soon as I stepped back on Saint-Marie, my cover got blown!" She shrugged again. "The Commissioner here offered me a reassignment, and it made sense to take it. It would have been too dangerous for me to go back into undercover work. _So_ – there you are." She smiled, a little wryly. "I tried to escape, but I ended up back where I started. I suspect Fate."

He wondered whether that embarrassed little smile was a learned response. Richard was all logic and scientific fact, while Camille was all about intuition and finely-honed instinct. Richard's diary had hinted at some tension between the two detectives' very different approaches. Was she used to being on the receiving end of Richard's derision about superstitious beliefs?

"I agree," he surprised himself by saying.

"You _do_?" Her own surprise was obvious.

"Yes – well, that is I believe that there's a place that _fits_ us. I grew up in the countryside, as I mentioned before, and I hated the place. The people were so…set in their ways. I was happy for a bit by the coast in Bournemouth, and then I was in London…" He looked out at the sea. "And all I could think of was that I didn't _fit_ there. The people were nice enough, and I had friends and Sally of course, and a nice social life, I suppose. But I felt _hemmed in_ on all sides."

"But that is how I came to feel about Paris!" she exclaimed, excitedly. "I felt…_suffocated._"

"Yes, yes, that's it exactly! Suffocated…" He mulled on the word for a few minutes. He hadn't thought of it before, but was that how _Sally_ had made him feel in the end? He had known that things were wrong and, in a sense, had come to blame that on the oddly enclosed London society they had found themselves in. He had genuinely thought that a fresh start in a new place like Sainte-Marie would have saved them, but now he was not so sure. Would that feeling of suffocation have, in fact, _intensified_ on this island with its small community?

"And now you are here?"

He smiled. "It's such a beautiful place, and the people are interesting, and I love the way of life… I know you and the others think I'm just some kind of over-enthusiastic tourist and that one day I'll pack my bags and head back to London, but for _me_…this _works_." He shook his head and refused to meet her eyes, a little embarrassed by his words. "I know it sounds impossibly naff, Camille, but I really believe that I was _meant_ to come here."

"We don't think that." Her voice was soft.

"What?" Reluctantly, he looked up at her face, but there was no derision in it. She wasn't smiling either.

"We – Dwayne and Fidel and I - we don't think you are a tourist." She gave him an oddly intense look before looking down at her hands.

The warm glow _definitely_ wasn't just from the rum. "Oh, I see…_thank you_. That means… That's – it's _good_. Good to know."

They were silent for a while, as the buzz of conversation continued around them. Then Camille stirred herself and picked up her empty glass. "Will you have another one?"

"Er…no, I don't think I will, but thank you." Abruptly, his mind was made up. Now was the time.

"Are you sure?" She smiled at him. "Only one tonight? But it _is_ a Friday night, with no work tomorrow, and the night is still young…"

"Camille, there's… there's something I need to tell you. Well, show you, actually. Would you just wait a minute…?"

She had got up to collect the glasses, but when he grabbed her arm, she subsided again, with a quizzical smile. "Of course, but what is it?"

He was fumbling under his shirt, trying to retrieve the book from his back pocket. As he finally succeeded in pulling it free, he could sense her amusement.

"It's…this." He placed the book on the table between them.

"What is it?" She picked it up and opened it, her smile fading. "Is this – it's _Richard's_ writing!"

"Yes. It's his diary."

She put the book down and looked up at him in confusion. "But… but _when_…?"

He sighed, but it had to be said. "I'm not going to lie to you, Camille. I could pretend that I'd only just found that, but it wouldn't be true. I've had it in my possession for five months now."

He spoke slowly and carefully. Looking at her face, he could see a myriad of emotions flitting over it, shock followed by grief, and then anger, and then back to shock. Scarcely aware of his actions, he found his hand moving across the table to cover one of her own.

"I didn't know what to do with it. He had hidden it, so I was sure that he wouldn't want anyone to read it. And I didn't know you all back then. I could tell that the three of you cared about him a great deal, but I didn't know what would be the best course of action. I didn't _know_, Camille, you _have_ to believe me. And I didn't know Richard – I never knew him, although I would have liked to. And I respect him, so I had to make the right decision."

"So why _now_? Why show it to me _now_?"

"Because I want you to have it. Because… because I think that out of _all_ the people he knew, he would have wanted _you_ to read it…and only you."

Her hand moved from under his and she ran it gently over the leather cover – almost a caress. Her head was bent and he could no longer see her expression. "Have _you_ read it?"

"Yes." He had to admit that too. "I wish I hadn't, but I was trying to understand him. I thought the diary might give me a clue as to who it should be given to. You see…I think he _loved_ you, Camille. And I don't know if he ever had a chance to tell you and I have tried and _tried_ to decide whether he would have wanted you to hear it. I've been carrying it around for _weeks_, trying to decide when and what to tell you, but anyway, the point is, I think you _should _read it. I think you_ need _to. It should never have been read by a stranger, and I'm so, _so_ sorry that it was me who found it." He hesitated, before adding gently, "I believe it should be read by – by someone who…loved him."

She was as still as a statue, but he sensed she was still listening. Her fingers slid across the book and curled around it tightly.

"Yes, I'm sorry I read it, but… at the same time, I'm _glad_. I'm glad I learned a little about Richard Poole. He was a remarkable man."

"Yes. He _was_." Her voice was a little muffled, as if she was holding back tears.

"I think I should leave you to it," he murmured, a little uncertain. He didn't care to leave her when she was so distressed, but instinct suggested that she needed to be alone with her memories.

"Yes. Yes, you should." He could _feel_ her retreating from him, her focus narrowing to the book in her hands.

He hesitated. "I'm so _sorry_, Camille, please believe me…" It was barely a whisper.

"I know." She looked up then, giving him a shaky smile as a tear rolled down her cheek. "I _do_ know you are, Humphrey, and – and I believe you did the right thing... But I think I need to be alone just now."

"Of course."

He sat back and watched her walk away, the book held tightly across her chest with both hands. As if it were the most precious of possessions.

* * *

**Oh, I'm so sorry! I'm just projecting all my grief into this story...  
**


End file.
